I cannot tell you how many times
I have stepped, Birkenstock against Birkenstock,
through the wind-whipped oaks of
Chestnut Lane;
and how set in its ways the sun was then,
how unrivaled the moon, blushing,
how stoic the brick-faced monuments to
family incorruptible.

these were mondays:
roars trickling past from distant highways,
teasing my blanched-white ears,
while mailboxes, slung with congregated dust,
fell open with a heap of shiny coupons,
shedding the loud sun.
and when i made the course around that
serpentine street, meandering like the squirrels
lost for food and purpose,
beside good fences soared my modest castle
in the distant near.
and there beside, good neighbors
with such dogs and papers as to make
the journey home a blessing